


Thorin the Fish-Whisperer

by FB_Dwalin



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Fish, Friendship, Gen, young Thorin/young Dwalin
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-14
Updated: 2013-10-14
Packaged: 2017-12-29 10:35:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 802
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1004376
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FB_Dwalin/pseuds/FB_Dwalin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>People asked me for a story about the time Thorin wanted to become a fish-whisperer.</p><p>Posted on Facebook October 14, 2013.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Thorin the Fish-Whisperer

The problem with being the Heir to the Raven Throne, future ruler of the mightiest Dwarf kingdom in Middle-earth, was that young Thorin never got to do anything fun. 

Now, if you’d mentioned that to him, he would have looked pretty surprised – what’s not to enjoy about being a future king? Didn’t everyone relish the chance to dig deep into the details of ancient wars, battles, and feuds, or explore the chess-game of diplomatic relations among the races, or learn about the important administrative duties of a powerful monarch? 

In a word, no. Not everyone. In fact, no one could possibly enjoy such excruciating dullness. 

What I’m saying is, Thorin was really missing out. And as his cousin and closest friend, it was my duty to help him.

So whenever we got the chance, I told Thorin stories. Interesting stories, the kind of things every young dwarf ought to know. Or at least, the kinds of theories that ought to be tested out, just to see what would happen. 

Because that’s life, isn’t it? Trying things out for yourself, living on the knife’s edge, going where no dwarf has gone before. And then coming back (if you’re lucky) with the kind of knowledge that only first-hand experience can give you.

On a dreary winter’s day I told Thorin the story about Finn the fish-whisperer. He was a dwarf of ancient times who had a magic that we, his distant descendants, have never possessed. 

Oh, what a life he led! He never toiled in the earth, never was made weary by the labor of his back. And yet he always had everything he needed – the shelter of a perfect cave that never was wet or oozy-smelling, the warmth of robes that were woven for him by the beasts themselves out of their cast-off wool, and fish that leapt up into his frying-pan at his command.

“You’re making this up,” Thorin said with a snort of disbelief. 

“I am not!” I said, a little offended. “Just because dwarves can’t do it nowadays doesn’t mean it couldn’t have been done, long ago. Probably the only reason why we forgot how was because nobody takes the time to learn it.”

Thorin stamped away, muttering. But a day or two later he asked, “I don’t believe that Finn could have been a fish-whisperer. How do you whisper to fish?”

“Well, logically,” I replied, “You’d have to put your mouth and one ear under the water, and say something a fish might like to hear.”

“Have you ever done it?” Thorin asked suspiciously. 

“Many times,” I said. 

“Show me how.”

I tried to explain that it wasn’t a good idea. I said that Thorin really wasn’t the kind of dwarf who could get a fish to talk to him. Besides, he was the Heir to the Throne – he should be content to eat the fish that was presented to him on a golden platter at the royal dinner table. Let some other dwarves try to develop magical abilities.

Anyway, soon we went down to the River Running. It was cold and snowy, and we were all wrapped up in our furs for warmth. Thorin had a frying pan in one hand. 

I tried to tell him to leave the frying pan in the kitchen. After all, he probably wouldn’t succeed on the first try. But he refused to listen.

We crawled out to the edge of the solid ice, and Thorin broke a hole so he could stick his mouth and one ear into the frigid waters – so he could hear if the fish were answering. 

I don’t know what Thorin said to the fish, but none of them leapt up into the frying pan that day. 

Just as Thorin’s lips were turning blue, his father Thrain showed up at the river bank, roaring with fury. He stomped out onto the ice, which cracked under the weight of all three of us. Thorin and I sank like stones. 

Mahal, that water was so cold it burned! Thrain grabbed both of us by the scruffs of our necks and hauled us out, one in each fist. He was still yelling when he got us up to the palace. Thrain told us we were never to try anything like that ever again. For good measure, he prohibited us from talking to one another for a week.

That evening, Thorin snuck into my room. He whispered accusingly, “I thought you said fish could talk! They didn’t say anything to me.”

“Well, they talked to Finn in the story!” I defended. “Maybe it was just too cold for them to say anything today. We’ll wait until the summer, and you can try it again.”

But then the dragon came, and that was the last time Thorin ever attempted to become a fish-whisperer.


End file.
